


Metamorphosis

by Idrelle_Miocovani



Series: Dragon Age: Insurrection [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Action, Angst, Apostates (Dragon Age), Assault, Cumberland, Drama, Fantasy Violence, Gen, Nevarra, apostate on the run, companion piece for Dragon Age: Insurrection, mages in hiding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 01:41:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19346974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrelle_Miocovani/pseuds/Idrelle_Miocovani
Summary: Fleeing from the College of Magi, Alexia turns herself out on the streets of Cumberland. As a mage, she stands out. As a mage, all eyes follow her. She's a fugitive now--and she must learn quickly from her mistakes, or not at all.





	Metamorphosis

**Author's Note:**

> A character short for my fanmade text adventure game, [Dragon Age: Insurrection](https://idrellegames.tumblr.com/post/182326346149/what-is-it-dragon-age-insurrection-is-an).

It's raining. 

She remembers how it once was. Dark clouds would gather far above the city, lightning sparking across their violet-grey haze. Lightning struck, thunder boomed, and nature poured its wrath upon the city below. She would go to the windows—the large ones on the third floor—and throw them open. She would stand there, eyes shut, the cool air prickling her skin, the wind tearing at her hair, the fresh smell of the rain wafting over her. Sometimes she would hold her hand out the window and feel the droplets pelt her skin, marveling at the sensation. Rain spoke of the city beyond the College walls, where the elements could not be controlled. Wet and wild and free. 

That was before. 

This is now. 

It's raining and she hates it. 

Alexia walks the streets, a thin cloak pulled around her shoulders. It's not a cloak, not really—black gossamer fabric draped over her white dress, clasped at the throat by a golden brooch. It soaked through in minutes. She bows her head, long raven hair plastered to neck. It feels heavy in this rain, pulling uncomfortably at her neck. 

She shivers, teeth chattering, arms wrapped tightly around her body as she cradles herself for warmth. Strangers eye her as she passes by, forcing one foot down, then another. The stones stab her through the soles of her shoes. Every now and again she trips on a loose cobblestone. 

Eyes bore into her. Many eyes. Everywhere. She can't avoid them. She stands out. A woman in a muddied white and black dress, gold clasp at her throat, gold bracelet on her wrist, wandering the streets of the dockside district. Something different. Something foreign. 

An anomaly. 

She shouldn't be here. 

Alexia's head snaps up. Her piercing green eyes find the man and woman looking at her from across the street. They are rugged, bedraggled. Their faces are hollow, angular, severe. The man is unshaven, his balding hair unkempt. The woman is elven—a jagged scar runs through her left eye, pulling at the eyelid. 

Alexia stares at them. 

The woman scoffs and saunters down the road, hand resting on the hilt of her sword. The man follows, but walks sideways as he follows his companion, his eyes lingering uncomfortably on Alexia. 

She swallows, hard, and grips herself tight. 

Her pace quickens. She needs to get away, find a place where she can be out of sight, out of mind. Somewhere where strangers will stop looking at her like she's a lost sovereign to be scooped out of the gutter. 

She spots a dark gap between two dilapidated buildings. She tilts her head, rain pelting her frozen cheeks. The buildings are three or four stories high and they are falling inwards on each other, the banisters of their upper balconies barely inches from each other. Perhaps it is just enough to offer a shelter from the rain, improvised as it is. 

She could be dead in five minutes if the buildings decide to collapse, but she'd rather than that remain in the street, shivering, exposed to the elements—and to the ones who want her dead. 

Alexia ducks into the alley. It narrows and the buildings press into her as she burrows deeper into the dilapidated hole. Eventually she finds a stone alcove. It stinks and her nostrils flare at the stench, but she crawls inside it anyway. Mud and dead leaves and something unmentionable clings to her skirts. She's too tall and curls awkwardly to make herself fit. Her heart leaps into her throat when she hears a sharp tearing noise—but it's only the hem of her dress. She shoves down the panic and lets it go. The dress was doomed from the start. 

Her head rolls back, pushing uncomfortably into the stone. She closes her eyes and runs a hand across her face, streaking raindrops across her skin. The rain is muted here. She can barely hear it. 

She needs a moment. A moment to think. A moment to breathe. A moment for the magnitude of her actions to sink in. 

The College. The templars. The mob outside. Allegria's furious eyes, the green one glowing with magic as a spell formed between her fingers. Gorlois' sword drawn an inch from its sheath, blue flame already dancing across its blade. Umbria, dark curls rippling across her face as she stood, rooted to the spot, caught in a vortex of her own magic. 

And the orb. The black orb. The damn orb, heavy in Alexia's hand, digging into her palm, glowing, burning, its surface fusing to her skin— 

_Hand it over._

_Give it to me—_

_Let it go, Alexia! It is a tool not meant for your hands alone!_  

Alexia's throat closes and she nearly jolts straight up with panic. She stops herself, gripping her arms so tight her fingertips turn white and her nails claw her skin. The pain brings her back. Her hand slides to the gold bracelet on her left wrist. An ornate, heavy thing with delicate filigree extending down her hand to a ring hooked around her middle finger. In the centre is a polished black stone.   

She shivers. She's so cold. The dampness has sunk into her bones. She will never get it out. 

She hates the rain. 

Something crunches behind her. A mouse? A rat? She doesn't want to think about the animals crawling around her, chewing on refuse. She closes her eyes and breathes. Her stomach churns at the unfamiliar, ugly stench—piss and stale alcohol, soaked into the stone. Not even the rain can get it out now. 

She could light a fire. It is easily done. She doesn't need tinder and wood to keep herself warm. She avoided it before, out on the street, but it's private here. She needs warmth. She needs warmth before she loses her mind. 

Alexia curls a hand inward, clutching it against her breast. Her teeth pull at her lower lip and she _wills_ it into existence. A bright blaze erupts in her palm, red and orange flames licking her skin harmlessly, warmth spreading from its core like a hearth in midwinter. The black stone in her bracelet hums happily, spinning whisps of magic. 

She huddles in the alcove, holding the flame close, skin prickling at the conjured heat. 

_"The mage bitch is here—!"_

A hand on her arm, rough, grasping. She's pulled from the alcove and thrown across the alley, bashing into the wall. She falls, hard, landing on the sodden ground, pain flaring from her tailbone. The flame winks out. 

Alexia's head falls forwards, chin bumping against her chest. A long, wet veil of hair is plastered across her face, hiding her eyes. Her ears buzz. There are voices surrounding her, but she can't understand what they're saying. Something grasps her wrist, hard, and she shrinks back, yelling, kicking, hissing, teeth bared— 

A slap to the face. 

The pressure on her wrist tears away. Her bracelet goes with it.    

_"NO."_

Angry red flame sparks between her fingers and bursts out from her hands. Her attackers are thrown back, tumbling into one another as they hit the opposite wall, their heads cracking against the stone. They collapse, bodies limp like ragdolls, a trail of blood smeared down the wall. 

Alexia stands, eyes narrowed, jaw set. She sweeps her drenched hair out of her face and lowers her hands. The bodies of her attackers lie crumpled before her—the unkempt man and the elven woman from the street. The dead woman grasps her bracelet between limp fingers. 

She stoops and pries it loose, slipping it back onto her wrist. It sits there, humming innocently with its own magic. Her stomach unclenches at its familiar weight on her hand. 

If she lost it… 

_You're on your own. You have to be smarter than that. You have to be smarter than everyone. No one is going to help you now._

_No one._   

Ten minutes later, a tall figure in ill-fitting clothes emerges from the alley, a hood pulled over her head to hide her hair. A band of dark cloth is wrapped around her wrist and hand. A handful of coins jingle in her pocket. She picks her way through the street, treading lightly, cautious, suspicious. She still draws eyes, but not as many as before. 

She's a fugitive. 

It's time she starts acting like one.


End file.
